Chapter 8 #3
I peeled off my own clothes—jacket, shirt, bra—until I was bare from the waist up. He helped with my jeans and panties—fingers brushing my skin, sending sparks up my spine.
When he moved to cover me, I turned—rolling onto my stomach, knees braced, ass up.
I couldn’t look at his face.
Not while he was inside me.
Not while the man who’d ruined me filled me again.
He didn’t question it. Just gripped my hips—hard enough to bruise—then slid two fingers into me first.
Slow, deliberate.
He curled them, stroking that spot inside that made my back arch, my breath hitch.
Wet sounds filled the silence as he worked me open—two fingers scissoring gently, then three, stretching me with careful patience.
I moaned—low, involuntary—the sound raw and honest.
He kept going until I was slick and aching, dripping down my thighs.
Then he removed his fingers.
And slammed inside in one brutal thrust.
I gasped—sharp, startled.
The stretch burned, then bloomed into something darker, sweeter.
He filled me completely—thick, hot, relentless.
He fucked me hard—hands bruising my hips, pace punishing.
At some point he leaned over me, one hand sliding up to cup my breast, pinching the nipple until I cried out.
His other hand stayed braced beside my head—caging me.
Every thrust hit deep, grazing my g-spot, sending shocks of pleasure through my core.
I moaned—not his name. Never his name.
I moaned the pain. The sorrow. The years of bleeding alone in a cell. The stillbirth. The silence.
Tears slipped free—quiet, mixing with sweat.
I hated him. I hated how good it felt. I hated that my body still remembered him like this.
His pace quickened—frantic now.
One hand left my breast, cracked across my ass—sharp, stinging.
I should have laughed at the pleasure-pain. Instead I let the pain bleed into everything else—mixing with the rhythm of his thrusts until I couldn’t separate them.
He came hard—growling low in his throat, hips slamming one final time as he spilled inside me—hot, pulsing, filling me until it leaked down my thighs.
I was close—so close—but I didn’t tell him. Didn’t ask. Didn’t beg.
He pulled out slowly—careful now—then turned me over with gentle hands.
His face—flushed, bright with release—went dull the instant he saw my tears.
“I thought you wanted this,” he said, voice cracking.
Almost scared. “Elena... did I—?”
“You didn’t violate me,” I said firmly, wiping my face with shaking hands.
“The sex happened with my consent. I appreciate that you didn’t force me. I just... couldn’t stop thinking about how much you ruined me.
“My child would have been four years old today.”
Ruslan swallowed — hard — his throat working as emotion pushed through the controlled exterior he always wore.
“Our child,” he repeated quietly. “Not just yours.”
I stared at him for a long second.
Then I laughed — but it wasn’t humor.
It was sharp. Cutting.
“Actually,” I said coldly, “it was just mine.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Because you never even knew I was pregnant.”
I stepped closer — anger rising like heat under my skin.
“I carried that baby alone.”
My voice dropped lower.
“Every kick.”
A beat. “Every fear.”
Another step. “Every cramp.”
I gestured toward my chest.
“In a prison cell.”
His expression shifted.
Pain flickered — fast — before he could hide it.
“You were sitting in your mansion,” I continued, my words slicing through the silence, “pretending I didn’t exist.”
My hands trembled — not from weakness, but from memory.
“The baby died before you even knew he was there.”
The words tasted like poison.
“So don’t stand there and say ‘our child’ like you had any part in it.”
My eyes locked onto his.
“You didn’t.”
Silence followed.
Thick.
Ruslan didn’t defend himself.
He just stood there — absorbing it.
I turned away from him and grabbed my discarded top from the floor.
Black cotton.
Still warm from my body.
My fingers tightened around the fabric before I pulled it over my head.
It caught briefly against damp skin.
I yanked it down harder than necessary — irritation fueling every movement.
Ruslan watched me.
I could feel his gaze.
Heavy. Measuring.
When I finally looked back at him, he was still standing near the cot — breathing unevenly from what had just happened between us.
His chest rose and fell slower now.
Settling.
He spoke after a long pause.
“I stayed longer...” His voice was lower now. Almost vulnerable. “...hoping I could make you come.”
I froze mid-motion — fingers hovering over the button of my jeans.
I lifted my head slowly.
“Yeah,” I replied flatly. “If you’d fucked me a little longer, I would’ve.”
His eyes darkened at the blunt honesty.
“But I still enjoyed it anyway.” The admission came out raw.
Unfiltered.
And it hurt to admit. Because it was true. Every single touch. Every slow thrust. Every deep, deliberate movement that hit that perfect place inside me — it had been too good.
My body had betrayed me.
It responded to him like muscle memory.
Like five years of hatred hadn’t erased the chemistry.
Like trauma hadn’t rewritten desire.
He had filled me.
Controlled the pace.
Controlled the pressure.
And for a few seconds, my vision had gone white from pleasure — not pain.
But enjoyment didn’t erase history.
It didn’t erase prison.
It didn’t erase the blood soaking through hospital sheets.
It didn’t bring back the tiny life that had gone silent inside me.
It didn’t silence the nightmares.
Ruslan watched me carefully as I zipped my jeans with a sharp tug.
The movement was aggressive.
I stepped off the narrow cot.
My legs felt unsteady.
Muscles still trembling from release and anger mixing together in a confusing storm.
I locked my knees. Forced stability. Forced control.
Behind me, Ruslan dressed quickly.
I walked toward the bunker exit.
Boots echoed loudly against concrete.
Each step carried anger.
Regret.
And something darker.
My fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
The skin broke again.
Warm blood slid between my fingers.
The pain grounded me.
Four days ago — when I had shot him in the hand and leg — the rush had felt powerful.
Watching him stagger.
Hearing that sudden grunt.
Seeing control slip from his face for a split second.
It had given me satisfaction.
For three seconds.
Maybe five.
But it hadn’t healed anything.
It hadn’t erased the image of the prison infirmary.
It hadn’t erased the memory of doctors speaking softly about still birth.
It hadn’t erased the way a nurse had wrapped my dead baby in a stained towel like he was disposable.
Like he meant nothing.
I clenched my jaw hard.
I wanted more than blood on his bandages.
More than temporary physical pain.
I wanted him to feel something deeper.
Something permanent.
Something that would mirror the hollow cavity inside my chest.
I wanted him to wake up one day and understand that my grief wasn’t theoretical.
It wasn’t manipulation.
It was loss.
Real. Unfixable. Irreversible.
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor loomed ahead.
I didn’t slow down.
Behind me, Ruslan’s footsteps echoed through the corridor — uneven now, weighted by the injury in his leg.
His gait was slower.
Forced.
He was trying to keep pace without showing weakness.
“Elena.”
His voice followed me.
I kept walking.
“Elena — wait.”
The tone was strained. Almost frustrated.
I reached the door and slapped my palm against the access panel.
It scanned.
There was a brief mechanical pause.
Then —
A soft beep.
Green light.
The steel slab hissed open slowly, grinding against its frame as hydraulic systems released pressure.
Cool night air rushed in immediately.
It brushed against my skin like a shock.
The scent of jasmine from the gardens above drifted through first — sweet, subtle.
Ruslan caught up just outside.
His breath was heavier now.
Labored.
His hand pressed firmly against his thigh where fresh blood had already darkened the bandage again — the wound reopening from too much movement.
He stopped a few feet behind me.
“You don’t have to walk away like this,” he said quietly.
The words were almost pleading.
I spun around instantly — fast enough that my hair whipped across my cheek.
“Like what?” I asked.
My voice was dangerously soft.
“Like a woman who just let the man who destroyed her life fuck her again?”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Or like someone who hates herself for still wanting it?”
His eyes flickered — something raw flashing across them.
“Or maybe,” I continued, stepping closer, “like someone who knows exactly how much more pain she’s going to cause you before this is over?”
That hit.
I saw it.
A brief fracture in his control.
His expression hardened — but not fast enough to hide the emotional impact.
“I never wanted—”
“Save it.”
My interruption was sharp.
Final.
“You don’t get to explain yourself tonight.”
I pointed at him. “You don’t get to soften what happened by turning it into regret.”
My voice dropped. “You lost that right five years ago when you signed the papers that sent me to prison.”
He absorbed it.
I turned away again.
My boots hit the stone path that curved back toward the main house.
The pool lights shimmered in the distance .
The estate looked peaceful from afar.
But peace here was manufactured.
Built on secrets and violence.
Ruslan followed.
His limp more obvious now.
Stubborn.
Persistent.
He refused to let distance form between us.
“Elena, please.”
The plea was quieter this time.
Less controlled.
More human.
I stopped walking when I reached the French doors that led into the living room.
My hand rested on the handle.
My back remained turned to him.
“If you want even the smallest chance at redemption,” I said without turning to face him, “you will help me get my sister back first.”
My fingers tightened around the door handle.
“And when it’s done — when I’m finally reunited with my sister — you’ll sign whatever divorce papers I put in front of you.”
My voice hardened.
I turned my head slightly — just enough for him to see my profile.
“And you will never come after me again.”
Silence stretched between us.
The night felt louder because of it.
Ruslan stared for several seconds.
I didn’t turn to look at him — but I felt his gaze.
Heavy. Measured.
Then quietly —
“I’ll do whatever you ask.” A declaration that he understood the terms.